


Ritual

by ShirleyAnn66



Series: He Wants (he wants) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friday Fast Fic Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyAnn66/pseuds/ShirleyAnn66
Summary: (It’s as familiar to him now as his own face.)





	Ritual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [openmouthwideeye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/gifts).



(It’s as familiar to him now as his own face.)

She always starts with her sword belt, unbuckling it and almost lovingly wrapping the leather strap round the sword’s scabbard (does she know he’s watching).  She sets the sword close to hand so she can grasp it even if wakened from a dead (he winces) sleep, something which has happened far too often the last few weeks and months.

With the sword safely stowed beside her sleeping place, she sheds her armor piece by piece:  gauntlets and gloves, skirts and breastplate, gorget and greaves.  Each is precisely placed, ready to be thrown on in a hurry, although not as close to hand as her sword.  She unbuckles, unclasps, unlaces, unhooks without looking, without thinking, removing the steel that protects her body (but never the armor that can’t be seen).

Her gambeson is next, slung neatly over a chair when available or arranged on top of the armor.  Like all else, it’s at the ready, always at the ready, and needed too often the last few months (he should stand guard but the Others are behind them, King’s Landing is ahead of them, and the smallfolk have all fled).

She sits to remove her boots, if there’s a place to sit, but more often she stands and tugs them off, first the left, then the right (there’s unknowing grace as she balances on one foot then the other, her legs long and toned and strong).

She unlaces her breeches and shoves them down her legs, pulling them off in an echo of removing her boots.  Her tunic falls past her buttocks, leaving her legs bare (there’s a kind of magic in the ebb and flow of her movements).

She turns her back before she pulls her tunic over her head in one a fluid motion, leaving her torso bare, her bottom half clad only in her small clothes.  Her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath then turns to face him, her mouth set, her eyes wary (she doesn’t trust this, doesn’t trust him; mayhaps she never will).

She lifts her chin as his gaze roves over her straw-like hair, her broken nose, her scarred cheek, her freckles and broad shoulders, her thick waist and long legs, and there is nothing more pleasing to his burning eyes (except mayhaps her ridiculous honor and bravery and kindness and all that makes her _her_ ).

She ducks her head when he starts to walk to her, her cheeks red, looking anywhere but at his nakedness, at the evidence of his arousal (someday he’ll convince her to let him remove her clothing himself (if they survive the Others; if they survive Cersei); let him slide his hand and stump down her legs with her breeches, let him lift her tunic over her head).

Still, she’s warm and willing as he reaches for her, pulls her close, kisses her, and her lips moving against his, her arms wrapping round him, feel like home.


End file.
